The Wedding Dress
by Ellynne
Summary: Gold shows Belle a wedding dress in his shop. Nonmagical AU.
1. Chapter 1

Gold felt a small surge of pride as he showed Miss French the wedding dress in the back room of his shop. It wasn't his most valuable acquisition from the recent estate sale but it was the most charming.

Miss French gasped when she saw it. "It's like something out of a fairy tale," she said.

Gold nodded. "It's vintage, from the fifties, but it has a timeless quality, doesn't it?" The bodice was tight with an off the shoulders neckline. There was beadwork in in gold and pearl running across the top and on the short sleeves with a full, ball gown skirt.

"Timeless," Miss French repeated. "Yes, that's exactly it. I'm surprised they could part with it."

Gold shrugged. "It belonged to the Montagues. They had three sons, no daughters. None of the granddaughters inherited Mrs. Montague's small build. I don't imagine there are many women who could wear it." Although, Miss French was certainly one of them, he thought, perhaps the only one in Storybrooke.

"The Montagues," Miss French repeated, trying to place the name. She'd lived in Storybrooke for a year, now, but she was still sorting out some of the local clans. "I don't think I've met them."

"No reason you should have. Roy and Julia Montague spent the past few winters with one of their sons down in Florida. This last summer, they stayed on. I think travel was getting to be a bit much for them." He looked at the dress a bit wistfully. "Theirs was quite the love story. High school sweethearts, their parents opposed the match. When Roy was drafted into the Korean War right after graduation, there were people who said Julia's father, Mr. Chapel, had somehow arranged it, trying to get him sent into exile, as it were." He chuckled. Simple things like fact and probability had never slowed down gossip in Storybrooke, as he should know. He lost track of the number of crimes and nefarious goings-on people laid at his feet. Gold had a sharp respect for his way around a contract, but some of the stories made him out to be almost godlike in his omniscience—not that he didn't use that reputation to his advantage.

"He came back in one piece," Gold went on. "The same can't be said for Julia. She caught polio in 1952, during the last outbreak. It left her lame in one leg." Gold had spent his childhood on the unforgiving streets of Glasgow. He knew how hard it could be to be seen as weak or damaged. Maine of sixty years ago might have been kinder in some ways, but he had no illusions about the hurdles young Julia would have faced, even if it came with kindness. Pity, he knew, could be even more crushing than cruelty. He looked down at his own, damaged leg. At least cruelty never left you confused about who your enemies were.

"She'd thought he'd want to break things off with her," Gold went on. "It made him angry, so I'm told, the one time he was angry with her in their entire marriage, if you believe the gossips."

He gave the dress a critical look. "Wide skirts were the fashion, then, but there was also a practical choice. It was made to hide her leg brace." He shifted his weight slightly on his cane. "I'm told she was quite self-conscious about it.

"I saw a picture of their wedding," he added. "It's quite true about their families. You can see them all glaring at each other in the background. But, I doubt Roy and Julia even noticed. They only had eyes for each other."

"That's a beautiful story," Miss French said. She looked at the dress wistfully.

Miss French was lovely even at the worst of times but, at moments like this, Gold was overwhelmed with how beautiful she was.

 _Not for me_ , he reminded himself.

They were friends—perhaps even good friends. They met sometimes over lunch or had discussions about books when he browsed through the library. They liked similar movies, and he'd even taken her with him to see a couple plays in Portland.

But, there were fifteen years between them. Anyone looking at them would think it was even more. Miss French looked closer to twenty than thirty. As for Gold, when he'd explained the significance of some of a couple items Roy Montague must have brought back from Korea, he was asked if _he'_ d served in the war, despite not even being born when it ended.

No, Miss French was certainly not for him.

He'd known that even before they had lunch today. She'd apologized and said that she couldn't make their planned movie night this week. An old friend from college, Greg Gaston, was coming into town.

Gold, listening carefully (he always did but he especially when Miss French was talking) had heard the slight catch in her voice before she said "friend." Her father was also coming to visit and wanted them to go out to dinner together.

A dinner with her father and with an old friend who was more than a friend. Gold had felt a surge of panic. He had known it was only a matter of time before Miss French faded out of his life. She would find a better job and leave town or find someone more worthy of her time. His only comfort was that fools were rather thick on the ground in Storybrooke but intelligence wasn't.

Or that's what he told himself when he tried not to wonder how long it would be before Miss French finally accepted the advances of one of the younger men he'd seen trying to attract her notice, lilke Keith Notting or Will Scarlet. But, she'd never paid them much mind. Was this the reason why? An old friend from college, a man her age and who her father approved of (Gold had met Moe French once when he came to town. The man had given him a puzzled, disdainful look when they ran into each other on the street and Miss French had introduced them).

In a foolish burst of panic, Gold had told Miss French about the dress and a few other items from the estate sale and asked for a chance to show them to her. To his surprise, she'd agreed.

He tried to think how to prolong this moment. "There's a book, here," he told her. "A copy of Shakespeare's sonnets. From the inscription, I think Mr. Montague must have given it to her before he went to war. He asked her to read one each week and write to him what she thought about it. She had notes written all over it."

Miss French picked up the book and looked through it. "Acidic paper," she said, looking over the yellowed pages. "I'm surprised it's lasted this long." She stopped on one entry near the end of the book. Probably one of the poems to the Dark Lady, Gold thought _._ He remembered one at random.

 _Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,  
Knowing thy heart torments_ _me. . . ._

"Oh," Miss French said. "Someone should save these. Didn't her sons realize what they were?"

Gold shrugged again. The sons had picked out a few favorites from the old books. They'd kept a pristine, gilt-edged, leather-bound copy of the sonnets but tossed this aside, to be sold en masse with a box of others. "They didn't strike me as overly sentimental. I don't think it mattered to them."

It wasn't the right thing to say to a librarian. Miss French looked downright militant for a moment. She swallowed it down. "Do you think they have the letters?" she asked. "The ones she wrote him? And, he must have written her back."

At college, she'd had a job in archives. It was the bits and pieces of daily life that had fascinated her, diaries and letters, the hints of daily life from old lists and notes. Of course, she wanted those letters. "They might. Or they might be lost. It's been over sixty years." Not everyone had Miss French's love of the past.

"I suppose so." Miss French held the book close. "May I borrow this?" she asked. "Just to make a copy."

"You can keep it," he said.

"Oh, I couldn't—"

"You value it for what's inside," he said. "If I tried to sell it, most people would only see a worn out book that had been written all over. It's better off with you."

"Thank you," she said, her eyes glowing. "I'll take good care of it." She looked at the dress again. "It's a beautiful story," she said. "High school sweethearts, there are lots of those. Staying in love through difficult times, through letters and . . . words." She gave Gold a look he couldn't interpret. "When I was in high school, we read Cyrano de Bergerac. I didn't understand it, then, how someone could fall in love through words. Now, I don't think there's any other way you _can_ fall in love. How else can you know who someone really is?"

Gold swallowed, thinking of all the time he'd spent with Miss French, the discussions they'd had, the passionate light that came into her eyes when she talked about the things that really mattered to her.

Like now.

Greg Gaston, he told himself. Her friend since college. The man her father approved of. "Your friend who's coming to visit, I suppose you've written to him?"

"What?" Miss French seemed surprised he'd even asked. Of course, she was. It was obvious wasn't it. "I suppose. We've emailed each other." She grimaced slightly. "And my father makes sure I know what's happening with him."

Ah. Interfering fathers. Gold knew a bit about those. But, it sounded even more serious than Gold had thought. Whatever was bringing Gaston up here, Miss French apparently wanted her father close at hand. "I suppose you're looking forward to seeing him."

Miss French gave him another, inscrutable look. "I don't. . . ." She turned away, unable to put into words whatever it was she was feeling. Gold felt his heart in throat.

Yes, this was it, the beginning of the end. Miss French would see her handsome friend (Gold had no doubt he was handsome), and he would ask Miss French whatever question had brought him to the back-of-beyond Maine. Miss French would answer, and they would go off together, leaving him behind.

As was only right, he reminded himself.

Miss French looked at the dress again, her eyes sad and wistful. "How much?" she asked.

"I'm sorry?"

"The dress," Miss French said. "It's so beautiful, and it's such a lovely story. Even if I never. . . . How much?"

A dress. A wedding dress. She was buying a wedding dress.

It was vintage. There might not be many people in Storybrooke who could even fit into it—Miss French might be the only one—but he had connections with several shops in Boston and a couple in New York who would give him a good price for it.

But, he'd seen how Miss French looked at it.

He named a price, about one tenth of what he'd been thinking of.

"Is that all?" she asked. "I wouldn't think—"

She would look beautiful in it, he thought. A princess. "Sometimes, vintage just means old," Gold said. _Rather like me._ "The size makes it harder to sell." Thought not in a city of millions, like Boston or New York. "You'd be doing me a favor."

She started to protest. He stopped her before she could start. "Please. It would mean a great deal to me. Please."

That was how he sold a wedding dress to Belle French and how he watched her walk out of his store. He expected he would see her again before she moved on and left. But, in his heart, he was already saying goodbye.


	2. The Proposal

Gold saw them from his store window as they walked down the street. The man walking a bit behind the other two was Belle's father, Moe French. The tall, young, handsome man walking beside her must be Greg Gaston. He had a brilliant smile that he was using to good effect.

Belle's face was turned towards Gaston where he couldn't see it, but he could imagine her expression. She would be laughing at whatever joke he had just made, sharing that warm, secret smile that made you think you were the only person in the world for her when she talked to you. . . .

He recognized the dress she was wearing. It was the one she'd worn on their first trip to Boston together when he'd managed to get ahold of tickets to a play she'd mentioned wishing she could see. Now, she was wearing it for Gaston.

It was getting late, Gold thought, as he locked the door and pulled down the shades before going into the back room.

X

Belle gritted her teeth and got out the yellow-green cocktail dress. Her dad had called her up weeks ago to ask about getting together on her mother's birthday.

Mum.

She should have known. Things had been difficult since Mum passed away. Dad didn't mention Mum often but, when he did, she always wound up giving him what he wanted.

She didn't know what Dad wanted, but he was bringing Greg along for it. That couldn't be good.

At least, Dad was being civil about it, whatever it was. He'd made reservations at Tony's, the fanciest restaurant in Storybrooke. The dress wouldn't be out of place there.

And maybe he did just want to talk. It had been years since Mum died. Maybe Dad was finally ready to talk about it. Greg was like a son to him. If he'd shown up in town, of course, Dad would bring him along. Maybe there was nothing more to it than that.

If not, the dress was the ugliest thing Belle owned. The color of seasickness, which Belle looked like she had when she wore it. It also made her look like a flat-chested, stumpy, overweight pear.

Oh, yes, if she had to spend an evening with Greg, this was definitely the dress to wear.

She smoothed the hem, remembering when she'd bought it. The Royal Shakespeare Company was performing in Boston. Gold claimed he'd "lucked into" a pair of tickets (box seats, as if anyone lucked into RSC _box seats_ ) after she'd mentioned wishing she could see them perform.

Even Belle knew you didn't go to see the Royal Shakespeare Company from box seats in the same clothes you cleaned up spit up from the carpet in the children's section after story time, which summed up most of Belle's wardrobe.

Fortunately, Belle had an ace in the hole. Ruby lucas might lean towards skin tight short-shorts and bare midriffs, but she knew the contents of every clothes store in town. They launched on a whirlwind shopping trip. Not so fortunately, the diseased cocktail dress was the only thing they were able to find that was (technically) formal enough for the RSC, in Belle's size, and (most importantly) in her budget.

Ruby had done what she could, launching a full scale attack with make-up and accessories. A silk scarf appeared out of thin air. It was a mix of blues and greens with flecks of gold that made Belle look fresh and alive instead of three weeks undead while still going with the bilious dress. High heels and dark tights shot with gold—their glitter invisible until she moved—somehow made the bulging skirt an accent for well-shaped legs.

She still looked like an overdressed pear, but she was a pear that could hold its head up in public.

Gold took one look at her and said she looked beautiful. Of course, he wasn't looking at the dress.

Tonight, there was no scarf and no high heels. She hoped Greg saw her and wondered why he'd ever bothered. If Dad was trying to get them together again. . . . She couldn't deal with it, not today of all days.

Odd, that's what they'd called her back home. Even at college, where she'd thought there'd be a place for smart kids, she'd been strange. What was it Greg called her when she helped him with his homework? A walking google search.

Maybe she'd just needed to get further away from Dad's team and the people who hung out with them.

Gold understood when she made odd references. He smiled at jokes. When she talked, he _listened_ and said things that let her know she'd been heard.

Except when she tried to tell him how she felt about him. He never seemed to hear her then.

Why had she bought the dress? It was beautiful—it might have been made for her—and she'd seen the way he'd looked at it as he told her the story. She'd thought—she'd almost been sure—

It didn't matter, she supposed. She'd never have a chance to wear it.

There was a knock at her door. Belle opened it, and there was her father was with Greg in tow.

"How's my little princess?" Dad said, hugging her.

"Fine, Dad," Belle said, trying not to wince. Dad was too big. It was always uncomfortable when he hugged her. "Do you want to come in?" _Please, don't come inside. Please, don't come inside,_ she thought, hating the idea of Dad and Greg looking around in that way they had, judging every choice she'd made and thing she owned.

But, he was her father. And it was the polite thing to do. "I could fix you a drink," she added.

Greg laughed. "No thanks. I've seen your idea of liquor."

"Always the designated driver," Dad agreed, laughing along with Greg. "We'd better get a move on if we want to make our reservation."

Any hope Belle had that this was about Dad wanting to spend time with her died when they got out onto the sidewalk. Dad maneuvered quickly so he was trailing a bit behind them and Belle was stuck walking alongside Greg.

Part of being a coach, she thought, getting your players where you wanted them. Not that Greg was a slouch at grabbing an opening when he got it. He'd been Dad's top player before graduating and going pro. Dad made no secret of his hope that, someday, when he was too old to play professionally, Greg would move on to coaching. Dad probably already had a chair in his office with Greg's name on it.

Greg and Dad had been the ones who decided Belle was dating Greg. She only remembered agreeing to help tutor him. Instead, she'd wound up writing papers and driving Greg and his friends home from parties when they were too drunk to do it themselves.

She'd owed him, Dad had hinted but never said. Things had gone wrong for them because of Belle. Once they were back on track, she owed it to Dad to make sure they stayed that way.

Belle remembered one night when she'd needed to study for an early morning test, and Dad wanted her to go to a party and keep an eye on Greg—keep him from doing anything that might get in small town paper, he meant, and drive him home afterwards. Belle had tried to put her foot down, but Dad would have none of it.

"Do you _want_ Greg to die in a car accident on the way home?"

It was the closest he'd ever come to saying . . . what they didn't say. Belle had gone. She'd done all right on her test, too, despite lack of sleep and a pounding headache.

"There, you see?" Dad had said. "Worrying over nothing."

Dad may have convinced her to stay home while she worked on her undergrad—it was half-tuition for the children of employees, and that wasn't counting her scholarships—but Belle had been ready to make a break for it when she got her master's of library science. She hit the road and ran.

She'd told herself she'd never look back. But, it had felt wrong to leave Dad on his own. She kept in touch and, when he'd given Greg her email and other online contact information, it only felt right to stay in touch with him, too.

Really, it wasn't too hard. A polite email, now and then, a comment on a game, and everyone was happy. From the news she came across, Greg was having plenty of fun without her. She'd thought he'd completely forgotten about her.

But, now, here they were, talking as if nothing had changed. Greg hadn't, Belle thought. That was the one, good thing about chatting with him. A few, polite noises when a pause seemed to call for them, and he was willing to fill in both sides of the conversation.

By the time they got to the restaurant, Belle was only too glad to hide behind the menu, hoping for a few moments of silence. The waiter poured water, left a pitcher of ice and lemon, and said he'd be back for their orders in a few minutes. She held the list of entrees in front of her like a shield, trying to settle her nerves in the brief quiet.

"What'll you be having, sweetie?" Dad asked.

"Just the salad for me." She didn't know if she could eat anything. But, a salad would be safe enough. If you stabbed at it a few times, people assumed you were eating even if you weren't.

"Trying to lose weight?" Greg said with a glance at the dress.

 _It's supposed to make you look fat,_ Belle reminded herself. _That's why you wore this dress. Don't get upset that it's working._

She gave Greg a polite smile. "Just saving room for dessert. We aren't all professional athletes, Greg."

Dad laughed. "It's all right, sweetie, you look fine. Doesn't she look fine, Greg?"

Greg looked her up and down, as if he here sizing her up for something. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, she looks fine. Maternal. And serious. That's a good thing."

Was Greg trying to be . . . _nice?_ If so, he was doing an awful job at it.

But, this was Greg. Maybe she should give him points for trying. Or run for the hills.

She looked at Dad, beaming happily, and sighed inwardly. "Thank you," Belle said warily. She fiddled with the menu, trying to think of something else to say. "So, Greg. How have you been? Your team had a good season, didn't they?"

"We're the best," Greg said, with his usual modesty. "If how we played was all that mattered, there'd be no question who's on top."

Belle puzzled over that. How a team played—or won—generally was how they determined who was on top, wasn't it? Unless Greg was aiming for cruder joke than she thought. "Oh?"

Greg scowled. "There've been rumors going around. You know how it is. Losers who can't beat us on the field try to go after us some other way."

"It'll blow over," Dad soothed. "Let the press see what a steady, level-headed boy you are and they'll go after fresh meat."

Boy. Greg was older than Belle. But, Dad just said, _Boys will be boys._ She wondered what kind of scandal Greg had brewing this time.

Bad enough he was keeping low in a small town like Storybrooke.

"Right," Greg said. "That's the thing, Belle. It was all right a few years ago, you running off to spend some time on your own and play with your books, but it's time for you to grow up and get serious about life," Greg went on.

Belle stared at Greg. He beamed at her, as if what he'd said made perfect sense. She looked at her father, who nodded sagely.

"Greg's right, sweetie," he said. "You're old enough to start taking responsibility for yourself."

"I'm not sure what you mean, Dad," Belle said, trying to sound pleasant, her knuckles whitening around the menu. "I'm self-supporting. I don't have any debt," _Unlike you,_ she didn't add. She'd paid for her master's on her own, no help from Dad. "How am I not taking responsibility for myself?"

She was looking at her father, but it was Greg who answered. "Come on, Belle. You and I had an understanding when you left home. You were young and wanted to see the world before you settled down. I get that and I supported you. But, it's been long enough. You're almost thirty. It's time to settle down."

 _And give up the wild, hedonistic life of a small town librarian?_ "I'm not sure what you're saying, Greg," Belle said. "What do you think I should do?"

"Get married," Greg said. "C'mon, Belle, we've been engaged for years. Enough is enough. It's time we did something about it."

"We _what?_ " Belle looked from Greg to her father, smiling benignly, apparently blind to the fact his favorite protégé had run mad.

"No one can say I haven't been supportive, Belle, but you can't expect me to keep my life on hold forever. We need to set a date and get it done."

He sounded like he believed it. Belle wondered what it must be like, living inside Greg's head, where the universe must be constantly rearranging itself to fit what he wanted.

But, why would he want her? The dress had done everything she wanted, making her look plump and uninteresting. Why would Greg think he wanted to marry _her?_

"The scandal," she said. "This is just a trick, isn't it? Let me guess, did your agent tell you to do this? Sweet, innocent Greg Gaston marries college sweetheart." Frumpy, boring, badly dressed, college sweetheart. Because who would believe Greg was a criminal womanizer if he was willing to settle down with _her?_ "Do you really expect anyone to believe that?"

"It's the truth, isn't it?" Dad said. "Maybe Greg never formally asked you, but everyone's always known how it was between you. Greg's been patient with you, sweetie, but he needs your help, now. It's time you started thinking of someone other than yourself."

"Dad—you can't—how—" She knew how Dad felt about Greg. If he could go back in time and switch him in the cradle with Belle, he would. But, no matter how things had sometimes been between them, she didn't think he'd do this to her. Desperately, she reached for the only argument she thought he might work. "What would Mum say if she were here?"

"She'd tell you to do what's best for your family."

"Mum wouldn't—"

Dad's mask of fatherly warmth vanished. His face was hard and angry. "Don't you dare tell me what your mum wouldn't do," Dad said. "It's your fault she's not here."

She stared at him.

He'd said it. After all these years, he'd finally said it.

There was a roaring sound in Belle's ears. She thought Greg might be saying something. She couldn't make out his words. Dad was still talking to her, but she couldn't make out what he was saying.

"Excuse me," Belle said, getting up. "I have to—I have to—"

She started to move away from the table. Greg grabbed her arm.

Dad said something. The words burned through the haze around her. "You can't run away from your problems forever."

" _Let go of me!_ " Belle yelled as she picked up the pitcher of ice water with her free hand and emptied it in Greg's face.

He let go, sputtering angrily. Belle turned and ran.

X

Gold sat in the back of his shop, spinning thread on his wheel. He'd never told Belle the story of how he'd learned to spin, had he? His aunts had run an old junk shop. He'd found a broken spinning wheel among the odds and ends they had in back the summer his leg had been broken, a gift from what, unfortunately, hadn't been the last time he saw his father. With not much to do except sit on an old coach while working through a stack of used paperbacks, he'd taken to trying fix some of the things left lying around. His aunts let him, so long as it was something he couldn't make any worse. The spinning wheel had been one of those.

It calmed him and gave him something else to think about. Something that wasn't Belle.

Someone was pounding on the shop door.

Gold tried to ignore them. Why should he bother with someone too stupid to understand what "closed" meant?

On the other hand, he thought, maybe he should explain what that sign meant. Loudly. And with as many blistering comments as he could think of.

Getting his cane, he went to the door and yanked it open. Belle French tumbled in, white faced and gasping for breath.

All thoughts of acid tongue lashings vanished. "Miss French?"

"Close the door," she said desperately. "Lock it— _Please,_ Mr. Gold."

Her eyes were red, and tears had left black tracks of mascara and eyeliner down her face. "You're crying," Gold said stupidly. He reddened. Of all the stupid, obvious things to say. Of course, she was crying. She didn't need him to tell her that. He locked the door and made sure the blinds were properly drawn before leading her to the back of the store. With the lights out, it would look like the store was empty. And, if someone tried to get in anyway, well, no one should be surprised these days when a store owner had a gun. He helped her sit down. "Is someone following you? What happened?"

The story came tumbling out. The awkward, uncomfortable beginning; a marriage proposal that might rank as one of the worst in human history; and an unspeakable accusation.

"Your father blames you for what happened to your mother?" Gold said.

"She came to pick me up," Miss French said. "It was—it seems stupid, now—but it was a book release party. I was just fourteen and the author was going to be there. Mum was worried about the weather—there was a storm coming in and we had a long way to go—but the author was doing a signing. I begged Mum to let me stay. By the time we started for home, it was already bad. And then—I don't remember. They said the car slid. I woke up in hospital. Dad—" Her voice caught. "They already had the funeral."

"It wasn't your fault, Miss French."

"How do you know?" she said miserably. "You weren't there. I made her—"

"You were _fourteen._ That's why nature gives fourteen year old parents instead of driver's licenses, to make decisions about driving late in a bad weather. When we make mistakes—when our children get hurt—that's on us." He hesitated. "Your father blamed you? He actually said that?"

Miss French nodded. "It's the first time he told me. But, I knew. After Mum died. . . . He say things. Look at me. And I—I couldn't argue with him when he did. I knew he was right.

"I just wanted to hide after it happened, to stay in my room or go away somewhere. But, Dad. . . . There were rumors going around. A college is a lot like a small town when it comes to gossip. Some people blamed her, said she'd been drunk, on drugs. Things like that. Some even said she'd been trying to kill herself. People blamed him. It was awful. Dad needed me there to tell people the truth, what I could remember of it."

Gold's hand tightened around his cane. "I see." He understood it only too well. Miss French had been injured and grieving her mother's loss, and her father forced her to relive it over and over again to save his own reputation. "And your friend, Mr. Gaston? His proposal was inept but. . . ." _But, did you want to accept it?_ The words stuck in his throat.

"It—it sounded like he has some scandal brewing, something he thinks will be fixed by getting married. Or married to a frumpy, old maid librarian."

Gold stiffened. "You shouldn't call yourself that. You're the most beautiful woman in Stroybrooke. If this Mr. Gaston was looking for something else, he came to the wrong market." He wondered about the scandal Miss French suspected was brewing. There were relatively innocent things that _might_ be fixed—or begin to die down—after a wedding. Though, these days, a wedding was more a diversion and three ring circus than a mark of respectability.

There were also . . . _less_ innocent things. Could Belle's father really be willing to sacrifice his daughter to save a man from that?

But, he still didn't understand. "I thought, when you bought the wedding dress, you were hoping for a chance to wear it."

"I would never wear that dress for Gaston," Miss French said. There was fire in her voice. She looked down at the outfit she was wearing and plucked at the skirt. "I'm sorry I even wore this for him. It's ugly but—"

"You look beautiful in it!"

Miss French smiled at him despite her teary eyes. "You said that the first time I wore it." Shyly, she reached out and took his hand. "That's why I kept it."

"It—it is?" That couldn't mean what he thought it meant. Could it?

"I love the time we spend together," Miss French said. "And I don't—I don't want to make things awkward. But, I . . . I. . . ." She gave up searching for words, leaned in, and kissed him.

What felt like several lifetimes later, they came apart. He was staring at her, stunned, the taste of her still lingering on his lips.

"Have I—have I made things awkward?" Miss French said.

Belatedly, it began to dawn on Gold that staring in shock at a woman who had just kissed him was not the best way to inspire her with confidence.

"No—of course not—I—" Courage—or madness (he was sure it was madness) grabbed hold of his tongue. "Miss French—Belle—would you—could you ever—do you think you could wear that wedding dress for me?"

Red-eyed, her face streaked with mascara and tears, Miss French was the most beautiful thing Gold had ever seen as she smiled at him and said, "Yes."

X

The wedding was held three weeks later. Some were happy for it. Some were not. The Lucases were the only ones who claimed not to be surprised, though only Granny was telling the truth. Ruby recovered from her shock in time to hold a wedding shower, get most of her plans for a bachelorette party shot down, and stand beside Belle as maid-of-honor.

If Maurice French had any reservations about his daughter's marriage, he took one look at Mr. Gold's best man, Jonas Dove, and kept his opinions to himself.

Belle was even more beautiful than Gold had imagined in her vintage dress. A small pendant of pearl and gold, a gift from her mother, and a matching pair of earrings Gold (his first name was Rumford, which left a sweet taste in Belle's mouth every time she said it) were the only jewelry Belle wore.

Her husband-to-be looked even more handsome than usual as she saw him waiting for her in the church in his new suit—a soft gray instead of his usual black. A white rose was pinned to his lapel, a perfect match for the bouquet white roses Belle carried.

The wedding probably went off without a hitch. Belle and Rumford didn't remember many of the details of the day. From the moment Belle began her walk down the aisle, they had eyes only for each other.

And they lived happily ever after


End file.
